Weary Battlefronts
by QueenxStardust
Summary: When Pony and Johnny escaped to Windrixville, they left behind a ravaged world, where the vicious battle of the classes would become out-and-out war. But everyone underestimated just what kind of havoc would break loose after the death of a Soc…


**One day later:**

The long day at work had been rough and not at all fun like it usually was. With Sandy gone, she'd been lonelier than anything, and although Steve had come in to fill her in about what had happened to Johnny Cade and the youngest Curtis boy, the news about the death of the Soc boy had frightened her more than seeing Steve had comforted her.

She'd broken up three fights, almost gotten punched in the face, and dropped an order, nearly getting herself into more trouble than the stupid burger had been worth.

Now Evie walked home uneasily, wishing her shift at the Dingo hadn't been so late. Her parents didn't have a car, Steve was still at work, and despite it only being seven at night, the death of the Soc had been at the back of her mind all day. Ponyboy Curtis and Steve's friend Johnny had gone missing, and the rumor was that they'd killed the boy. Shivering, more from the eerie thoughts than the chilly weather, she cuddled closer inside Steve's jacket, wishing he were really here with her. To make matters worse, Sandy Clark, who always worked the same shifts as her, had gone off to live with an aunt. Explaining that her parents couldn't take care of her, Sandy had delicately mentioned that she'd be moving away to live with an aunt, for a while. Evie had understood the euphemism, and was shocked.

Only imagining the pain that Sodapop had been in when Sandy had broken the news the night before, she wondered vaguely if the kid would've been Soda's. Not that she thought any worse of her friend, but it wasn't something she could ask either of the two.

Completely alone, her senses were on fire. The walk back home was only ten minutes, but the three minutes that had already passed made her nervous. Biting her lip, she began to feel sick with anxiety. Just a few hours ago, a fight had broken out on the Ribbon between a Soc and one of Tim Shepard's crew, with both of them yelling awful things at one another. Changing her mind abruptly, she decided to walk to the DX, turning and heading towards it. Only a few blocks away, it should only take a few minutes for her to get there. With Steve and Sodapop there, she'd feel better.

Comforted by just the thought of the two of them, she let down her guard for a little. Which, she realized, as a car pulled up behind her, wasn't the cleverest idea she'd ever had.

Darting off, Evie wished she had taken Steve seriously the time he'd told her to carry a blade in her purse. Laughing it off, she'd told him that he was crazy. Girls didn't do that sort of thing. Only hard, greasy girls, like that Sylvia. She thought she was safe because she was a girl, because her boyfriend was tuff enough that she didn't get messed with.

But as a few kids she thought she recognized from school climbed slowly out of the car – whatever kind of car it was, it was nice, a Soc car if she had ever seen one – and she tried to run away, as fast as she possibly could, flying across the street, trying desperately to reach the DX, her heart pounding desperately as she was in sight of the brightly lit station, and she almost made it, when her wrist was yanked from behind her. She could've sworn he was in her science class.

Evie was not a small girl, like Sandy had been, or paper-thin like Sylvia, or completely feminine and helpless like Two-Bit Mathews' newest girlfriend, Kathy Roberts, but these boys towered over her, their long legs easily catching up to her frantic steps. Damn heels, damn skirts, damn darkness and goddamn fear that froze her up and made her movements so stiff. She wished she had worn slacks, or flats, or anything but the stupid, frilly uniform that looked more like a cheap outfit from a resale shop than anything professional.

Spinning her around to face the four of them, the one that held onto her menacingly smirked, and she caught sight of the others: one tall, one thick, and the other with a wild head of curls that she couldn't find the time to laugh at, too anxious and afraid to even attempt to play it cool like she'd always been told. Sure now that they went to her school, her fear did not lessen. In fact, her stomach completely flipped, because whatever they did to her, she'd have to see them again, five days a week, for the rest of the year and maybe the next.

"Hey, sweetheart," one cooed, interrupting her panicked thoughts with a terrifying leer.

"Where you goin' baby?" another slurred. Despite that, she knew they weren't drunk. These boys were high on anger, stone-cold sober and ready to do some damage.

She was a greaser: she knew it, they knew it, and the shame of being caught so easily as one embarrassed her, and she felt tears of helplessness and fury and terror filling her eyes until her vision blurred.

"To the DX station," her voice faltered despite herself, dread filling her. She wanted to throw up. "Where my boyfriend is expecting me," she added, the lie coming out badly, high-pitched and shaky.

"Oh, hear that, guys? Her _boyfriend_ is waiting for her." One of them sneered, stepping forward and glaring at her with an icy rage that stopped the rapid beat of her heart and froze her blood. "You know… there's a girl on the West side, waiting for _her_ boyfriend. You know where he is?"

Too terrified to speak, she shook her head mutely, her limbs trembling as she yearned for Steve and Soda, even for Dallas Winston or Two-Bit Mathews. Tim Shepard, any of the Brumley boys – anyone that wasn't a Soc. Anyone. An old man, a police officer, another girl. She wanted to scream, but her throat closed up at the very thought and burned, the muscles contracting so hard, as if trying to protect itself.

"He's dead," the one who held her wrist hissed, flicking out a blade. "He got cut. So we're gonna show you how he felt. You can tell your boyfriend all about it."

Shaking her head and trying to break away, Evie nearly threw up. Grabbing a hank full of hair, the thick one who had caught her wrist yanked her back, and she screamed, a hellish shriek that somehow gave her the courage to keep shouting.

"Steve!" she screamed, as the blade hit her nape, aiming up to shave off her hair.

Sodapop Curtis popped his head out of the DX, and in the lamplight, saw her. Shouting something incoherent at the garage, he took off running in their direction, reaching them in what was probably twenty seconds but felt like twenty years. After him, came Steve, and just the sight of him filled her with such relief that she sagged against the boy who held her.

"I've got a blade," he hissed, and Sodapop halted. Catching up, Steve was restrained by Soda's outstretched arm. Black rage was evident on his face, and Evie felt safer just for his presence.

"You wouldn't dare use it, goddamn you," he hissed. Soda's eyes were red and furious but his face was blank, cool. They slouched, their upturned collars and broad shoulders giving them an aura of danger that Evie knew from experience, could be very real.

"Bet you figured that greaser friend of yours wouldn't use his knife either," one sneered, stepping forward.

"God _damn_ you!" it was Soda's turn to get caught by Steve, who held him back, his muscular arms highlighted by oil and dirt.

"No, _grease_," the insult was all the more pointed because of their appearances. "We aren't like _your_ kind. We haven't killed anyone… yet.

"Get your goddamn hands offa her," Steve's quiet voice was filled with calm fury, and she felt the grip on her hair falter. As soon as that happened, she tore off, barreling into Steve and Soda's grasps, blinking hard to hold back her tears.

Steve absentmindedly tucked some hair behind her ears, and the gesture made her feel better than anything else ever could've. Gently pushing her behind him and Soda, Steve flicked out his own knife – one she hadn't known he carried – and took a menacing step towards the Socs, with Soda on his heels.

"Don't you _ever_ threaten a girl like that, damn you," Soda's voice was louder than Steve's, and hot, opposed to Steve's cool tone. It was no less frightening, though, and Evie stepped back fearfully, the heated anger coming from the boys not making her feel any better about the situation.

By the end of it, Evie was a sobbing wreck. Soda took on one of the guys, wrestling him to the ground, and Steve slashed at the Soc with the blade, warning him off. Not even slightly cowed, the guy slashed back, narrowly missing Steve. The two others walked uneasily over to Evie, watching her, their eyes hooded, ready to jump if it looked like either of their pals was struggling.

Soda managed to get the guy down, but just as he stood, the two others lunged at him, beating at him. Flinching and hiding her face, Evie screamed, Soda going down beneath the weight of the two boys while Steve focused on the kid with the switchblade, the two of them taking turns reaching out and playing cat and mouse with the other.

"_Get down_!" a shout came from behind Evie, and the fighters paused, but not before Steve got a slash in his arm, blood spatting the sidewalk, a long, thin cut that looked painful.

Dallas Winston strode towards them easily, a gun in his hand, his face hard.

"Drop your knives," he commanded. When the Socs did not comply, he repeated, more harshly: "I ain't messin' around! Drop your blades, scum."

The kids backed away.

"Keep walkin," Dally commanded. They walked backwards, hands up, until they judged they were far enough to run, turning on their heels and escaping back to the safety of the car.

"Christ, Evie, you okay?" Steve turned to her and scooped her in his arms. She didn't care that he was sweat covered and that the blood from the gash got all over her hair, or that Dallas had a gun, or that his shirt was covered in grease. They were okay. He was okay, she was okay, Soda was okay. Dallas Winston had saved the day. An unlikely hero.

Evie could've kissed him, she was so relieved, but instead, she hung onto Steve and cried, feeling like a fool but unable to help herself. Rubbing her back, Steve spoke gratefully to Dallas.

"Thanks, Dally. I dunno if we could've made it outta that fight all day."

"Hey, man, the Socs have been goin' wild all day." Dallas answered coolly.

"Where'd ya get a heater?" Soda demanded. "I ain't complainin', but you better be careful carryin' 'round one of them. It's dangerous. The Socs see you with one, they're liable to break out one of their own."

"Don't worry, Sodapop," Dally reassured him. "It ain't loaded, man. I was just comin' down to the DX to grab a Pepsi and I heard the makin's of a rumble. You okay, there, kiddo?" he asked Evie, as kindly as he could manage.

Only crying harder, she tried to smother her sobs and nodded, her face still buried in Steve's filthy shirt. Leaning away from him, she sniffed, knowing she looked horrendous but still too scared out of her wits to care. "Are you guys okay?" she asked, wiping her eyes, trying to steady her voice and her trembling limbs.

"'Cept for this, I'm good. How about you, Soda?" Steve looked at his buddy, who was nursing his fists.

"Think I'm okay. Kid had a hard head though," he admitted sheepishly. "Nothin' but some bruises. I'll be fine."

Evie heard the lie right in his voice, but knew he wouldn't want her buzzin' around him like a mother hen, especially with Dally Winston there. After Sandy had left and Pony had disappeared in less than a day, Soda looked a wreck, and probably felt it. Guiltily, she felt awful for all the times she'd been dismissive of him or ignored him. He was such a nice boy, and Steve's best friend. And he'd just saved her skin –and hair – back there.

"Here, Dally, after a rescue like that, you can get you pop free."

"Great, man, I'm thirsty as hell. It's a wonder they even heard me yellin', my throat's so dry. Hey, got any smokes?"

Arm around her shoulders, Steve guided her towards the station, and she wanted nothing more than to bandage his cut and crawl in his arms. Gladder now than ever that she'd decided to cut over to the DX, she wondered distantly if they would've picked a fight with her.

"I can't believe they threatened a girl," Soda said in disbelief, grabbing the Pepsi for Dallas.

"I can't believe they threatened my girl," icicles were warmer than Steve's voice, and she shuddered. "I don't know who the hell they are, but they're goddamn in for it."

"Jesus, man," Dallas whistled. "Those guys really are dumb. Seven at night? And with a blade? Dunno how they're gonna try to threaten some kid. A girl, man."

"Don't tell me you wouldn't go after a Socy girl if someone killed one of us," Soda reasoned. "'Specially Johnny, or Pony. You look after them real well."

Dallas stiffened, and Evie curled up as close as she could to Steve, still trembling. "Shut your trap. The kids are prob'ly in Texas by now and you're crackin' jokes, man? They're probably scared outta their wits, man, shut up. I'd kill a Soc for the kid, but have you ever seen me go after a broad? Wiseass. Dunno what you gotta think of me."

"'Cause you were always with Sylvia before, you ain't never needed to," Steve answered wryly, his thumb tracing circles on her shoulder.

"Little broad," he scowled. "Hangin' around Phil Roberts of all goddamn people. Hey, ain't Two-Bit datin' his kid sister?"

"I never know which blonde Two-Bit is seein' anymore," Sodapop shrugged and went to help a customer, the old bell chinking melodiously as an old man walked in, asking for gasoline.

"What're you doin' walkin' by yourself at night?" Dally asked. "Ain't you got any sense? It's wartime, kiddo, get out your war paint."

"Do not be a smartass right now, Dally," Steve warned him. "I ain't in the goddamn mood to deal with this shit. Kid prob'ly left me a scar to remember him by."

"I had to walk home from work," she piped up, as defensive as she was brave enough to get with Dally Winston. "I got nervous and figured I'd stop here, when that car came up behind me. I tried to run, but they were faster."

"Did you carry a knife like I told you?" Steve asked, trying and failing to not let concern color his tone in front of the boys. He looked down at her, his eyes dark and angry: not at her, but at everything else.

Still frightened, she replied: "No… I figured that wasn't something girls do." Hanging her head shamefully, she knew she should've listened, but she figured she'd never actually have to worry about something like this. She'd always assumed Steve would be there, or she'd never be alone, or she could run fast enough. Her vulnerability scared her, and her heart contracted, skipping a beat, wondering if this would ever happen again, and knowing it probably would. Maybe not to her. Maybe she wasn't even the first girl they'd gone after. Knowing Socs, it wasn't surprising.

After what just happened, nothing could surprise her.

Shaking his head, he squeezed her. "Only a goddamn coward'd go after a broad anyway," Steve reasoned, lighting up two smokes, handing one to Dallas. Evie would've killed to be a smoker right then, wishing that the little sticks gave her the same peace of mind it did Soda.

"Well, if it was normal times, you'd never have to worry about something like this happening," Soda reassured her, after filling up the customer's tank, smiling gently at her, still rubbing his knuckles. How he managed to be so nice to her after the fiasco with Sandy, she didn't know. It made her feel even guiltier for dragging him into a fight, especially while he was at work.

And it occurred to her that this wasn't any ordinary time. Like Dally had said, it was war-time, and greaser territory was the battlefront. The realization filled her with bitterness. Of course, no fights could take place on the West side. That was where the Socs ruled supreme: greasers and hoods alike avoided the place. She only wished that they'd grant them the same courtesy.

But human decency wasn't to be expected from the kind of people who'd jump a girl at night, four to one, with a weapon. The kind of people who'd attack two small kids at three in the morning, and blame them when a kid got killed. The savagely wealthy, insanely terrible kind of people who believed in an eye for an eye.

Wickedly, she had the burning thought that she was _glad_ that one boy had died. She couldn't push it away. She was glad they had realized what loss was. A Soc didn't know how to lose, whether it be friends or their precious madras. Loss was the mark of a greaser, she thought tiredly to herself, rubbing her nape and bringing up a lock of curly blonde hair the group had managed to hack off.

Looking at it sadly, she let it drop to the ground, floating slowly through the air, and landing delicately on the ugly tiled floor.


End file.
